


Keeping Watch

by Sarren



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a changed world, Lewis watches over James.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Watch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lewis_Roulette
> 
> Prompt song was Black 6 - [Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums by Perfect Circle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ejsM0VF-Os)

James’s wrists are chafed and bruised from his restless, agitated movements. Lewis thinks about finding rags or something to protect them, some medicinal cream to put on the abrasions, but he doesn’t dare leave James alone, even safely handcuffed to the headboard as he is. And let’s face it, if – when - James wakes up, sore wrists will be the least of their concerns.

It’s been two days since he last spoke to Laura; he doesn’t dare give away their location. He has to protect James, whatever it takes. Laura’s safe, he knows that. The hospitals are some of the most heavily protected facilities and doctors and researchers work feverishly to find a cure for the Infected, or at least an effective treatment to prevent those in the early stages from turning. Elsewhere, the emergency broadcasts regularly announce, scientists are on the verge of producing a vaccine.

Neither of which can help James right now. Lewis turns away from the window for a moment as James groans, and watches as James’s head tosses restlessly against the pillow, his hands clenching spasmodically. Blood has soaked through the bandage on his shoulder but Lewis has nothing here to replace it with, unless he resorts to the bed sheets.

There’s the roar of an engine and Lewis makes sure he’s concealed by the drape of the curtain before he risks a look outside again. A tank rounds the corner, military personnel in full riot gear walking beside it, their heads turning, alert for the quick darting movements of the Infected, but that’s not all, Lewis knows, because Laura told him, before they decided it was too dangerous to talk over the phone. They’re not just after the ones who’ve already turned.

The hospitals are overloaded. Resources are running low. They’re not even close to coming up with a cure, and there’s no real news of a vaccine. At least, that’s what Laura’s heard, but no one actually knows; it’s all rumour. The military, the police, they all have their orders. To put down anyone who’s been compromised. Never mind that they might not turn. The Infection doesn’t take everyone. 

James still has a chance to get through this. Not if they’re discovered, though. The fact that they’re police officers won’t protect James. Not in this new world order.

 

He remembers, not that long ago, a discussion about the increasing powers of governments in the wake of 9/11. They’d been pleasantly tipsy, Lewis remembers, because it was a Saturday night, and none of them were on call, and they’d indulged in a few bottles of a very good wine James had bought. James had cooked that night. Lewis still didn’t know exactly what James had fed them, just remembered that he’d taken the piss, something about how it was so delicious it couldn’t possibly be vegetarian. James had just pulled a face at him. After dinner James had settled on the floor near the heater, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Laura had sat cross-legged at Lewis’s feet, leaning back against his leg. James had pointed out the moral implications of the new laws in terms of restrictions of human rights and freedoms, while Laura, who Lewis knew for a fact agreed with James in principle, played devil’s advocate, defending the benefits of increased security. Lewis, relaxed and contented in the company of the two people closer to him than even his own family, hadn’t felt an urge to enter the fray. He’d rested his head against the back of the sofa and let his eyes dwell on James’s face, on his earnest expression as he argued, watching as he'd occasionally gesture pointedly at Laura with the glass he held, the liquid sloshing dangerously over the cream rug. James’s gaze would drift over to him periodically, and his mouth would crook in that little smile of his, unashamedly affectionate. Everything had been perfect.

 

There’s a flash of colour, of movement, in the corner of his eye but before Lewis can even try to make out what it is there’s a single gunshot and a figure falls. Another soldier raises his weapon and fires at something out of Lewis’s line of sight. Lewis ducks back instinctively as the soldier’s automatic weapon swings in his direction.

Just a single shot to the head is all it takes. But no one takes any chances. They can’t afford to. Before this, if he’d been asked to describe zombies Lewis would have guessed they’d be slow moving, shambling creatures, easy to dispatch. Like that Walking Dead show that James claimed to watch for the character development and its insights into the human condition. Not these terrifying creatures that attack with inhuman speed, that rend and bite and rip, and whose slightest scratch causes infection.

James moans again, thrashing against whatever nightmare contorts his face in lines of agony. Lewis reluctantly moves away from the window, from the approaching black-clad figures, and sits beside James on the bed, picking up a tea towel from the bucket of cold water on the floor and wringing it out to lay across James’s sweat-sheened forehead. “Shh,” he murmurs, although it’s been days since James was conscious enough to respond to his voice. “There’s a good lad,” he says gently, quietly, reaching out to clasp James’s closest hand, more for his own comfort than anything. He ignores the rumble of the tank passing, resolutely doesn’t listen for the sound of doors being kicked in. It’s not like he plans to run if they’re discovered. He won’t leave James. 

And he can't move him. Not till James wakes up. He cannot risk innocent lives if James wakes up… wrong. If Lewis isn’t fast enough. Or can’t bring himself to do what’s necessary. What James would want him to do. 

The handgun is on the bedside table, within easy reach. Lewis bows his head, gives himself a minute to grieve for everything they’ve lost. The sound of the tank’s engine fades, the weapons fire becomes distant. Eventually there is silence. 

Even James is still, Lewis realises, his heart lurching. He opens his eyes, instinctively gripping James’s hand tighter, and then James’s hand tightens on his in return and Lewis’s heart leaps in hope and fear both, because James’s eyelids are fluttering.

Lewis doesn’t know if it’s a good sign that James seems calm. The transformation can happen in the blink of an eye. If he had any sense of self-preservation at all he’d pick up the gun and back away. Instead, he holds James’s hand and waits for him to wake up. He’s made his decision. James would be proud of him. 

He’s going to have faith.


End file.
